I don’t know what possesses me when we leave the police station. I don’t know why I can’t accept Jett’s defense of me. Maybe it’s because I’ve worked for years to fit in here, in the city, in my career, with my friends. I clawed my way out of my tiny hometown, taking out student loans and applying for every scholarship possible, but underneath this cascade of emotions, the girl I used to be returns in the blink of an eye.

The girl I used to be who sought approval, who needed people to reassure her that she was, in fact, making it and not a complete fraud.

I was a fraud with Jett. Not completely, but enough, and I want to know. I want to know that after the excitement fades, after the relief is less powerful and it’s the two of us, that he won’t think the worst of me if I’m not in bed when he wakes up at night.

So I ask him before things go any further.

“You know, Jett, now that this is all over, I think this might...I think we should probably talk.” It’s a thousand times harder than admitting to him that I was the culprit when it came to the money leaking out of his accounts.

“About what?”

“About whether we both want this.”

“Do you not?”

I want this. I want this so much. Whatever it is, whatever it becomes, and it could become something so incredible, so fantastic, that it will last a lifetime.

I don’t want to pressure him. I can’t say that I want it so much that every muscle in my body aches to be next to him, even when he’s in the next room. “Won’t you always suspect me? Won’t it be hard for you to trust me, even if we are together?”

He doesn’t launch into a lengthy explanation for why he will or won’t suspect me. He smiles at me, his green eyes dancing in the late afternoon light. “Why are you smiling?”

“There’s something I wanted to show you.”

He leans forward and whispers something to Stuart, then leans back and enfolds me in his arms again.

Aside from being in bed with him, it’s the best feeling in the entire world. In my entire life.

I never dreamed it could be like this.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, we pull up to a nondescript building on the Upper East Side.

“Back in ten, Stuart,” Jett says, then steps out of the car, extending his hand to help me out onto the sidewalk.

The building looks like a generic office building, the concrete facade giving absolutely nothing away. It’s the kind of building you could pass a hundred times and never really see. It looks like dozens of other buildings I’ve passed during my time in the city.

“What is this place?”

“You’ll see.” Jett’s eyes are shining, and he walks in through the front door radiating a kind of confidence that fills me with heat.

The lobby is small, paneled almost entirely in wood polished to a high shine. There’s a kind of sacred hush about the room, which has exactly one occupant other than the two of us: a man in a dark, tailored suit who sits behind an antique desk. When we come through the door and into the cool of the air conditioning, he stands up and approaches us.

“Mr. Brandon,” he says, extending his hand. The two men shake.

“This is my guest, Angelica Chandler.”

He offers me his hand to shake as well. “Gregory. Ms. Chandler, would you step over to my desk for a moment?”

Jett’s by my side as I follow Gregory to his desk. He opens a drawer and pulls out a tablet, sleek and thin. It looks like an iPad, except it has a scanner built into the bottom.

He swipes at the screen for a moment, and when he turns it toward me the first thing I see is a picture of my own face. It looks like my last driver’s license photo, and I glance over at Jett. He gives me a subtle nod.

Gregory indicates the scanner at the bottom. “Press your thumb here until the green bar appears.”

When I put my thumb against the scanner, a green line blooms from the center of the screen and unfurls out toward the edges. When it gets there, it blinks three times.

“Wonderful. Now—” Gregory produces a stylus. “Could you sign on the dotted line?”

“Sure.”

I sign my name where a dotted line has appeared below my picture and a bunch of other information about me.

“It’s absolutely secure,” Jett says. He must have seen my eyes widen.

“Thank you,” Gregory says and puts the tablet back into the drawer. Then he turns to one of the side walls.

A green light blinks above what looks like a piece of the paneling, and then it slides open to reveal a hallway.

“Mr. Brandon. Ms. Chandler.” Gregory returns to his desk.

Jett gestures for me to proceed into the hall.

I’m so curious I think my heart might fly out of my chest, but it’s so quiet that I don’t want to ask any questions.

Jett follows me through the door, and it slides closed behind us.

In the hallway, there are six other doors. Jett steps up to the second one on the left, then presses his hand into a panel at about shoulder height.

That door slides into the wall. The room inside is small, with a kind of safe set into the back wall. There’s enough room for an ornate antique chair and a small table in the center.

“Come on in,” Jett says, going to the safe and pressing his hand to another scanner. The safe pops open, and Jett takes out a small wooden box. I think it’s a jewelry box until he opens it.

Inside are two keys.

“This is an access point to the Swiss bank that handles the bulk of my personal accounts,” he says, and I glance up at his face. He’s concentrating on the keys. “The money that Harvey was stealing from the States came from a set of accounts that only holds a fraction of my wealth.”

I shake my head a little. Where is this going?

“These keys can be used to access the vault at the Swiss bank’s physical location.” He picks one up and presses it into my palm. “This one is yours.”

“Jett, I don’t—”

“I want you to know, with every ounce of your being, that I trust you.”

My hands shake a little. “I can’t—”

“You can take it, and you will.” He pulls another small box from his pocket. This one is a jewelry box, and inside is a delicate chain. Jett puts the key box on the table and holds out his hand. I put the key in it like it’s on fire.

He threads the chain through the top of the key, then steps forward and reaches around my neck, fastening it while I hold up my hair.

“I trust you,” he repeats, and then I’m in his arms, and he’s kissing me hard. The weight of the key is comforting against my collarbone.

Then he breaks the kiss. “I love you, Angelica.”

My world explodes with joy.